Page 189 of We Redeemed the Rain

After a few long moments, he whispered over my ear. “Happy birthday, Strings. I didn't like not sayin’ that in person.”

“Yeah, FaceTime isn't the same.”

He leaned forward to quickly kiss my lips then said, “Party time. Turn around.”

“What?”

He grabbed my shoulders and spun me away from him. Before I realized what was happening, a yellow bandana was lifted over my eyes. Tag tied a tight knot, careful not to pull my hair.

I laughed. “What’s going on?”

“Shhh. Be patient. Can you see my hand?” I felt the wind from Tag’s hand as he did a test run, waving it in front of my face.

“No.”

“Alright. Good.”

“Can you please tell me what we’re doing?” I stamped my foot with feigned impatience. “This blindfold is crushing mascara into my eye.”

“Your eye’ll be fine. Just trust me.” His hands wrapped around my shoulders as he led me forward. When I stumbled at the door’s threshold, he said, “Oops. Sorry. Door’s there.”

He was so unnaturally excited that I couldn’t help but laugh. “Why are you blindfolding me when we are clearly going into the house? Are you about to do something inappropriate?"

He laughed then suddenly froze. “Now that you mention it, we could detour to?—”

I cackled. “Just show me!”

“Alright! Alright!” He pushed me forward. Our path was as known to me as the back of my hand. We went through the side kitchen door, down the left hallway, past Suite C and Suite D, then followed the corridor to the back side of the big house. When he stopped me in the middle of the hallway, I questioned his motives. “Uhm, it feels like you're about to push me into the storage closet?”

“Yep.”

“You said thiswasn'tinappropriate.”

“Don't act like you'd be disappointed.”

“Fine, I?—”

“Shush.” He opened the closet door and prodded me in.

You couldn’t really call this room a closet. It was a weird oblongroom that was too big to be a closet, but too small to be a bedroom. As we renovated the suites, we chucked random crap in here.

When we stood in the middle of the room, Tag reached for the knot on the back of my head. The blindfold fell away.

I gasped.

Instant tears blurred the room.

My hands instinctively cupped my face as I took in my surroundings.

The interior of the storage closet had been painted a pewter gray.

New electricity had been wired to a beautiful light fixture with moveable spotlights.

A guitar rack and sound absorbers hung on the wall.

And a microphone hovered, suspended from the ceiling, a stool directly beneath it.

Notanymicrophone—theexactone I’d visited one hundred times on Amazon and read countless reviews for.

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